


Mysterious Ways

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly never expected Jim from IT to be a psychotic consulting criminal. But the revelation of his true nature led her to something even more unexpected than finding your boyfriend is a killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mysterious Ways

She wasn't supposed to be here, dressed in trackie bottoms and a ragged sweatshirt, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, staring at the scuffed table in an interrogation room at Scotland Yard as Detective Inspector Lestrade sat opposite her, looking as if he'd not slept in a week and sporting a lump of sticking plaster on his forehead.

"Tell me about your boyfriend," Lestrade began. Molly saw that his hands were shaking.

"Jim?" Molly asked, confused. "From IT? My boyfriend? Please, what's going on? It's…"

"Two in the morning. Yes, Jim from IT. Your _boyfriend_."

"I don't understand…"

"Don’t you?" Lestrade growled, suddenly slamming his hand on the table, making her jump. "Well, Dr Hooper, let me _help_ you understand. Five people are dead tonight alone, and seven have been hospitalized, my sergeant among them. So are both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, thanks to _your boyfriend_."

"Sherlock's in hospital? Why? What does this have to do with Jim?"

"Because your boyfriend, Dr Hooper, is a fucking lunatic. He's responsible for the bomb that destroyed the building in Baker Street last month, the bomb that killed those twelve people in…"

"But that was a gas leak!" Molly's stomach dropped. This wasn't happening.

"…and the bomb that destroyed the pool this evening in Acton," the DI finished, pushing away from the table and moving around to stand behind her.

"Jim… did _what_?" Molly struggled to make sense of the words pouring out of the man behind her. She could smell the cigarettes on his breath, the acrid stench of smoke on his clothing. It frightened her almost more than his rage. Lestrade gave a short bark of laughter and spun away again – a man possessed – before he paced around the small room.

"Yes, so I suggest you start talking and make it _very_ interesting, Dr Hooper, or you will find yourself nicked as an accessory to domestic terrorism." Lestrade pushed at the chair he'd vacated, sending it clattering to the floor. Molly flinched at the noise.

"But I don't know anything! Jim is…" Her voice shook. She tightened the grip on her hands in her lap.

"Where is he now?" the DI said, voice low and ragged. "Tell me, or so help me, I will… Fuck, my Sergeant almost _died_ tonight because of… him!"

"At home? I don't know! How could he have done _any_ of this?" This was a bad dream. It had to be. She would wake up in a moment in her bed, with Toby purring on her feet.

"Where's home? Surely you're not that dim, Dr Hooper, that you couldn't see what he was!"

"Jim is always kind to me. He couldn't have…" Her feet were sweating, her hands were trembling. She took a deep breath.

"An address! Give me the address! Where did he fucking live?"

"F-forty-two Dulverton Road, I _think_. It was dark and I didn't see much, we didn't…"

"You'd better hope you're right, Dr Hooper." Lestrade resumed pacing, running his hands through his hair. "Oh, and your loyalty? What proof do you want, because there are people _dead_ because of him. People _you've_ autopsied!"

"But it's _Jim_! He'd not hurt a fly!" Molly felt the tears welling up. It was late, and she was tired; she'd been on a twelve-hour shift the day before, and she had another one coming up.

Detective Inspector Lestrade shoved his face close to hers. She shied away from his fury, from the smell of smoke.

" _Jim_ is a…," She groped for words. Lestrade laughed again. It was not a pleasant or reassuring sound. The door behind them opened.

"I think you're finished here, Detective Inspector." The man who entered – Molly turned and took in the elegant suit, the precisely folded umbrella – put his hand firmly on Lestrade's shoulder.

"Take your hand off me…" Lestrade ducked out from underneath the man's grasp and glared at him.

"You're done. Detective Sergeant Donovan is conscious. She wishes to speak with you."

"She…" Lestrade gestured to Molly.

"She will be in good hands, Detective Inspector."

"Now look here, mate, I don't know who you think you are, but you can't just barge in here, and…"

"As a matter of fact, Detective Inspector, you will find that I _can_. I will take care of Dr Hooper for you."

"You will not."

" _Don't_ make me threaten you, Detective Inspector. I know you don't need to see my credentials."

"Credentials. You can start by taking those credentials and shoving them up your…"

"Gregory. The situation has been taken out of your hands. Chief Inspector Hendrickson and Minister Parker have all agreed that I…" The man paused. "Well, I convinced them that, given the sensitivity of the Bruce-Partington plans…" At that phrase, Lestrade stopped his tirade. His shoulders hunched, and he drew his hand across his forehead.

"Ah, Christ. This had to do with _that_? I though John having me on when he said he was going to see you about…" Lestrade shook his head. "Shit."

Molly watched, fascinated, as he lurched to the door, exhaustion etched in every step – tired and afraid as she was, even she could see that.

"Inspector, for what it is worth, I am deeply sorry." The man examined the tip of his umbrella.

When Lestrade reached the door, he turned, leaned against the frame and glared at Molly.

"And her?" he asked, pointing.

"Dr Hooper is a material witness, and with such a sensitive case, it was decided that it would be wiser that you be allowed to tend to your people."

"Great," Lestrade snorted.

"Your sergeant is waiting, Detective Inspector. You know what to do."

Lestrade stared at him, and finally, after a pause, he nodded and barged out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

"I apologize for his behavior, Dr Hooper," the man said. "Detective Inspector Lestrade is, understandably, upset. He chose, unfortunately, to take it out on you."

"But why me?" Molly asked, no longer trying to stop the flow of tears. "I didn't _do_ anything."

The man righted the chair Lestrade had knocked over and sat opposite her.

"I know you didn't, but your relationship with James Moriarty has jeopardized the lives of several people, including Sherlock Holmes."

"He said he was in hospital. That it was my fault. Please, tell me what happened."

The man looked at his hands, long fingered and delicate. Molly noticed the ring on his right. Silence stretched between them.

"There was a puzzle," he finally said. "Jim created a series of circumstances – puzzles, really, that were irresistible for Sherlock. He solved them all, and then there was… well, you don't need to know all of the details, but he led Sherlock into a trap."

"A trap? Oh, God, the bombs – I autopsied some of the victims, I…"

"The trap was laid at the pool in Acton to which the Detective Inspector referred. Jim kidnapped Dr Watson and strapped a bomb to him, just as he had for the other victims." The man paused and grimaced. "And Sherlock… Sherlock made the only logical move, as far as we can determine."

"What?" Molly asked, fear clenching in her stomach.

"The logical move? Really, Dr Hooper, surely you can deduce…" The man paused. "He detonated the bomb."

"Oh. Oh, God." Molly felt the bottom drop out of her world. "No…"

"Dr Watson is in surgery. He may not survive; the next few hours are critical. Sherlock is unconscious but will, the doctors think, make a full recovery."

It was too much. Molly began to sob in earnest.

"Oh, Molly." The man pulled the chair around to her side of the table and offered his handkerchief. "Please, don't think that I blame you. You are as much a victim as Sherlock, as John, even as Detective Sergeant Donovan. I know you want to help. That's what you do, isn't it, Molly? You help? You help the families find closure, don't you? Tell them that their sons and daughters are important, care for them?"

Shuddering, Molly nodded. She felt, rather than saw, the man's presence by her side. He was calm, centered, controlled. _Safe_.

"I just work in the mortuary. The dead… they teach me things that the living can't know unless…."

" _Hic venit mortuus ut vivi doceatur_. You're brave, Molly. Not many are capable of doing that. You respect them and what they offer us, though they're no longer with us."

"I… they don't talk back to me, dismiss me. They … they help me understand." Molly was babbling, she couldn't help the words flowing from her mouth – she had to make the man beside her see that she was _good_ , that she hadn't known about Jim, that she _helped_ people.

"And Jim?"

"Jim made me feel special, made me feel clever and… pretty," she said, pausing to blow her nose inelegantly into the crisp linen. She twisted the fabric with her hands, not meeting the man's eyes.

"He… Sherlock is always so horrible to me, but Jim, Jim said I was nice, didn't say things about my mouth being too small, or that I'd put on weight, or that my hair was untidy."

His voice was soft and coaxing. "You deserve more than abuse, Molly. Did Jim ever talk about himself?"

"Only that he didn't have family, that he liked cats. We… we went to his flat once, in Rayner's Lane, but I didn't spend the night. I had to feed Toby, and he… well, we never…" Molly trailed off, blushing furiously. "Except that one time…"

"It's all right."

"I never meant to cause any harm!"

"I know, we… we never do, when we mean well."

"I know he meant to make me _happy_ , and now the Inspector is telling me that I'm a terrorist, and you're telling me that Sherlock almost died, and that Dr Watson _might_ die, and it's late and I want to go home, and…" The tears overwhelmed her again as the man sat beside her, quietly holding her hand until the storm of weeping passed.

"I'm so sorry to distress you, but there are one or two tiny details I need to know. You do want to help, don't you, Molly?"

"Yes," she whispered.

* * *

When she had finished answering his questions, the man stood.

"Thank you, Molly, you've done well. You are free to go."

"I…" Molly looked up, confused. "Who are you?"

The man smiled.

"I occupy a minor position in the British government – let us just say I am an interested observer." Molly wondered at it – surely a man who carried himself with such assurance would be more than just a minor official.

Before she could argue, he turned and left the room. As the door shut behind him with a click, Molly noticed she was still holding his handkerchief. On it were embroidered the initials "MH."

"Wait!" she called out. "I have your…" She stood as the door opened. "I have your handkerchie-"

A woman reading a Blackberry stood in the threshold.

"I'm to take you home," she said, not looking up from the tiny screen.

"Who…"

The woman looked up then and smiled.

"I'm afraid you don't need to know that quite yet, Dr Hooper," she said.

* * *

The sky was still dark when Molly let herself into her flat, but a glance at the clock on her cooker told her it was almost five. She turned on the dim light on her kitchen table and stared at the teakettle.

Was it worth it to even try to sleep? She had to be up in two hours…

"Toby?" she called, not really expecting an answer.

There was a rustling from the front room.

"Toby? Are you into the fern again?" Molly asked, trying to decide if she should just go to bed and leave the cat to his merry destruction, even if tomorrow he was going to throw up all over her carpet. She was just deciding on bed when she heard a voice from the sitting room.

"Molly."

 _Jim_. She froze.

"Molly, love, come in here. Don't turn on the light."

"Jim?"

"Yeah, Mols, you've got to help me."

Molly looked about her kitchen and grabbed a large knife. Just in case. She hesitated in the door to the sitting room; she could see him silhouetted in the light from the street. Stiff, head down, rubbing his knees.

"Where've you been, Mols? I've been waiting for hours." Jim's voice was soft. Wheedling.

"I've been… out. I… Jim, they're saying such horrible things about you," Molly said. "That you're a bomber!"

"Who? You didn't believe them, did you, Mols? Why are you in the doorway?"

"Jim, what happened? Why are the police looking for you? Why is a man from the… I don't know where he's from – the government or something – why are they looking for you?" Molly strove to keep her voice firm.

"You don't believe I did anything, do you?"

"I don't… Jim, what did you do? Why is Sherlock in hospital? Why did they say that you killed all those people?"

"I didn't, Mols, you have to believe me. I didn't do it. Come here and let me explain."

"No. They said you're dangerous." Molly tried to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"They lied."

"People are dead, Jim. And they're saying you did it."

"Molly, you need to trust me."

"Jim, please tell me you didn't do it."

"People die, Molly. It happens every day. You know that."

"Oh, God, I'm calling the police." Molly swallowed. This still… this still couldn't be happening. Could it?

"No."

"What?"

"No. I can't let you do that. You're the only person I trust, Mols. Did you know that? I can't let you betray me." He rose, walked toward her. "Why are you holding that knife?"

"I don't… I don't know who to believe," she confessed, taking a step back. "The Detective Inspector was so angry."

"He's a fool. People die, die all the time, every day. You know that, silly girl. You see that."

"I am _not_ … don't take another step."

"Mols, put the knife down."

He was forcing her into the kitchen, Molly belatedly realized. Step by step by step, until she felt the back of her legs against the cupboards. She took a deep breath.

"No. Tell me you didn't do it. Tell me this is a bad dream," she whispered.

"Molly, listen to me. I _had_ to do it. Sherlock was a hindrance, always in my way. And you… you _help_ me, remember. You make things easy for me. That's why I like you."

His hand rested against her hip, while his other hand wound into the loose to-the-side ponytail. He pulled it tight, and Molly gasped.

"You can help me, Mols," he whispered, his breath warm in her ear.

Molly shivered, and the words came tumbling from her mouth:

"You did it, didn't you? Did you know that you've nearly killed Sherlock's friend? John? Who else did you kill?"

"Sherlock's not everything he says he is. I proved that tonight. He's an arrogant twat, Mols." Jim yanked on her hair, pulling her head back. "I did that for you, Mols. Did it to show you just what he's like."

"What…"

"He's _human_ , Mols. A failure. I burned him, burned the heart out of him. And all these little people, chasing around like mice, stupid mice, I'll burn them too, and you…"

"Jim, you're hurting me!"

"Daddy's through now, Molly! It's time to put the toys away."

"Who are…"

"Put the knife down, Molly."

He grabbed for it, pressing his hips against her.

"NO!" Molly screamed and kicked out against his ankle. Her foot made contact.

"Bitch!" Jim at least let go of her hair as she tried to throw the knife away from her; it caught on his hand and he snarled.

"Get. Off," Molly growled, shoving against him.

"Not. A. Chance," Jim countered, shoving back, pinioning her arms behind her and pulling the knife from her grip.

"This is how it's going to end, then, Mols." He started tracing the tip on her chest. "Is this how you'd like it?" he asked. "Pretty girl – pretty designs."

But he'd forgotten about her knees, and he shifted slightly. Molly dimly remembered a self-defense class from years ago – when she'd first moved to London.

 _Now, Hooper, now_.

Her right knee came up, brushing against his thigh, but it managed to make contact with his groin.

He howled and let go of her arms.

Wrestling bodies on and off gurneys had given Molly a strength that people didn’t usually count on (so did lugging bags of kitty litter up three flights of stairs), and she shoved again, sending him staggering back into her table as she scrambled for the knife.

"Bitch!" he screamed again. "Stupid, stupid, cunt!"

Brandishing the knife, Molly backed out of the kitchen, trying to remember where in the hell she'd left her phone. Desperate, she plunged to the sitting room, flicking the lights on and blinking, blinded by the light.

She needn't have worried.

At that moment, her front door burst open and all hell seemed to break loose.

Men flooded into her flat, shoving her aside, and as she fell to the floor, strong arms caught her. Arms that smelled of cigarettes.

"You're okay," a voice said as he held onto her. "It's going to be okay."

"Fuck you!" Molly cried, pushing Lestrade – it had to be him – away. He stumbled backwards, knocking over the fern and sending Toby yowling and streaking to her bedroom.

It felt good.

Which was the point, of course, that her knees gave way.

* * *

Jim was yelling from somewhere. Glass shattered. Voices were shouting. Footsteps thundered through her flat. Mrs Jenkins from downstairs banged on her door and protested. Somebody shooed her away. Molly huddled on the floor, leaning against her sofa, arms wrapped around her knees, willing it all to go away.

"We lost him. He did a runner out the kitchen window. Don't know how he managed to survive the fall, but our team in the alley lost him."

"Shit. All right – keep me posted," the voice that had comforted her was saying. There was a furious rustling. "This is your fault – if you'd let me go in sooner… Shit, what is this thing?"

"That would be Dr Hooper's fern that you are destroying, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade harrumphed and stalked away – presumably he'd managed to extricate himself from the fern, as far as Molly could determine with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. As the police began to leave, doors shut. In the street below, cars pulled away.

Somebody was sitting beside her; she wasn't alone – when the hell had he arrived?

"You marked him," he said. Him, the man from the station. The man who'd given her his handkerchief. "Molly, you were very, very brave. A lesser person wouldn't have been able to get Moriarty to reveal as much as he did."

"I'm not brave," Molly mumbled into her knees. She felt him move beside her.

"You are. We don't know we're strong until we absolutely have to be – and you demonstrated that admirably tonight." A note of wry amusement crept into his voice. "And that almighty shove you gave the Detective Inspector – well, that was masterful," he said.

Molly chuckled in spite of herself and raised her head. He was watching her, carefully.

"Do you think… I'll send him an email apologizing later," she said with a grin.

He smiled back.

"Most diplomatic of you."

The silence between them seemed almost companionable, given the wreck of her flat.

"I will send a team round later today to clean up," he said after a pause. "You should try to get some rest."

"I'm not tired," she said. "But I would… would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you," he replied, pulling out a pocket watch. "I'm afraid I'm already late."

 _Who wears a pocket watch?_

Molly scrambled to her feet. He rose with a great deal more grace.

"Again, I apologize," he said, "for the inconvenience."

"Yeah, well… I'm going to… I don't know, drink tea, and then, try to resurrect my fern. I don't know," Molly said. "You scared my cat, I hope you realize."

The man smiled at her.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he asked.

Molly pretended to consider it.

"Perhaps," she said with a weak smile, as she showed him to the door. "Toby might not, though."

* * *

Molly called in sick the next day, and seriously considered calling in for the week, but practicality won out – she was fairly certain that dating a serial bomber wouldn't get her signed off any time soon.

A team from the mysterious man did come around and help her tidy her flat. He even sent her another fern.

She sent flowers to both Sherlock and Dr Watson.

But it felt a futile gesture.

Even Toby was distant, although she supposed that was more for being nearly crushed by DI Lestrade than anything else.

She sent an email to him at Scotland Yard, but heard nothing back.

So, she went to work – went back to the night shifts that nobody else wanted, where she could be alone with her dead.

And try not to think about what she had done. Or not done.

Jim had escaped. And she felt… she felt it was her fault.

On the fourth night, there were flowers on her desk. The note merely said, "I understand this is a difficult time. MH."

MH: the owner of the handkerchief that she had washed and was currently keeping in the pocket of her lab coat.

It made her smile for the first time in days.

* * *

A month later, long after the flowers had wilted, Molly finally felt brave enough to face the canteen. And sat by herself, struggling over the chicken parmesan in a mysterious red sauce.

"It's really quite inedible," a familiar voice said.

"It's my only lunch," Molly replied, looking up. The strange man from that horrible night stood before her with a cup of tea.

"Well, I mustn't deprive you, then," he said with a smile. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the seat opposite.

"Oh-Of course," Molly stammered.

"Thank you, Dr Hooper. I hoped I'd find you here tonight."

"Oh?"

"I wanted you to be the first to know that Dr Watson will, it seems, make a full recovery."

"And Sherlock?" Molly asked, then bit her lip as a trace of a frown – was it disapproval? flashed across his face.

"Sherlock is his usual obstreperous self."

"Oh. That's… good. Well, not good. But good that he's alive. He's so _horrid_!" Molly cried. The man across the table smiled briefly.

"I have every inclination to believe you," he replied.

"He's so _thoughtless_ to others, and then the way he tried to tell me that Jim was gay, and he was right, and I could tell he didn't care about me, but about figuring it out. I mean, why do something like that? Why couldn't he have just said something else, like a normal person?"

She stopped suddenly.

"I understand your frustration – would you prefer it if I arranged for him not to be allowed in building anymore?"

"You could do that?" she asked incredulously.

"I… might be able to," he replied.

"I'd love you forever!" Molly blurted and blushed as he smiled at her again. Then, casting around for something to say, "I… thank you for the other night. I… kept your handkerchief; do you want it back?"

"You may keep it, if you like. And think nothing of the other night. I merely happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"Thank you. I… I realized I don't even know your name!" Molly said.

"It's Mycroft," the man replied, holding out his hand for her to shake. "That should put us on slightly more equal footing, don't you think, Molly?"

Molly took his hand.

"Yes," she said, a smile creeping to her face, "I think it does. But still… I hardly… Surprising me here, and buying me a new fern isn't..."

"Molly," Mycroft cut in, "I… this is unusual for me to do – I am not a man who usually has the time or the inclination, but would you like to join me for a cup of tea in the near future?"

"You're having tea now," Molly pointed out, and could have kicked herself.

"So you observe," Mycroft replied, "but I rather think that I would enjoy taking tea, if you will, with you outside of the confines of the St Bartholomew's Hospital canteen. If, however, you are not amenable to such a suggestion…"

"No!" cried Molly a bit too loudly and tried to cover it with a giggle. "I'd… love to have coffee, or tea, with you."

Mycroft smiled. Molly decided it was a rather charming smile.

"Very well," he said. "Your next day off, I believe, is this Tuesday?"

"How did you…?"

"Let us meet here." Mycroft pushed a card across the table. "At three-forty-five?"

"Oh, of course…"

"I look forward to it, Dr Hooper – Molly." Mycroft stood, grasped her hand and bent, raising her fingers (with the stench of formaldehyde still clinging to them) _almost_ to his lips.

* * *

The tea shop was in Pimlico, a discreet distance from the Underground and completely unremarkable.

It took Molly three tries to find it.

Mycroft was waiting for her when she finally found the entrance and hurried to the table.

"I'm sorry," she said as Mycroft looked up from his slim notebook. "I didn't think I'd get lost."

"Quite understandable," he replied smiling, "this place is designed to be… difficult to find. It's quite convenient."

"Do you like not being able to be found?" Molly asked.

"On occasion," he replied, "anonymity is something I crave."

"Oh, yeah, work worries, then. It's nice not to be _known_ , I guess." Molly would have given quite a bit to be known around Bart's, not just as the princess of the dead, or Sherlock's would-be girlfriend, or – these days – the psycho's bitch.

More and more information had been surfacing about Jim, and all of it was frightening. She had made sure she installed new locks and a bolt on her door, but she still didn't feel safe.

"Yes, well…" Molly tried again as the tea arrived.

"If you would prefer not to have tea, you are free to…"

"No! No, I just… I'm not… it's… after Jim, I…"

 _Oh, God, Hooper, don't bring up your **ex** , you idiot._

"Would you like to talk about him?"

"It's not really something one talks about to their dates – is this a date?" Molly blurted, looking up from her hands, panic-stricken.

"If you would like it to be," Mycroft said. "I'm not… I'm not like other men, Molly, my schedule dictates that I rarely have the time to conduct typical relationships."

"And..."

"I'd very much like to conduct a relationship with you – if you are amenable to it."

"Me? Why?"

"I find you … not devoid of intelligence. You are exceptionally clever and tender-hearted. It is our combined misfortune that we met at a time where things are difficult for you. Well, I am also attracted to your…"

He paused. Molly's heart tightened.

"I find your willingness to shove back – your valiance in standing up to Moriarty, and however mistakenly, to Detective Inspector Lestrade – quite attractive."

"Attractive."

"Plucky would be an inappropriate term. So, here is the proposition. I find you attractive, perhaps occasionally in need of a knight in shining armor… Perhaps you would enjoy an evening out with me."

Molly stared at him.

"I don't think I've ever been asked out like this," she said. "I don’t know what to say!"

Mycroft smiled and poured her tea.

"Have a scone and think about it," he said. "I'd be admitting prejudice if I told you I would hope the answer is 'yes, Mycroft, I'd love to go on a date with you'."

"Aren't you going to have one? And what happens if I say 'no'?"

"I'm not particularly fond of sweet things," he said with a smile. "A savory scone would be dangerous, but these… I'm safe from them. As to your other question: I will consider pressing my suit, but keep an eye out, just in case there's a stray fern lying in wait.

"Oh, well." Molly giggled, blushing. "So," she said, striving for nonchalance, "this _is_ , then, the strangest date I have been on."

He took a relieved breath. She saw from that how she'd pleased him with that small word "date". Encouraged, she continued, "So I won't be dragged to the cinema, then?"

Mycroft chuckled.

"Not if you don't desire it."

"Oh, thank God! Jim always wanted to go and watch the most horrible romantic comed–" she stopped short.

"It's perfectly acceptable to talk about him, Molly," Mycroft said, reaching out to cover her hand with his, "There's nothing you can tell me that will offend or hurt me. Especially about him."

"Well, if you… look, I'm sorry but Jim seemed so _different_. You know? He made me feel, I don't know, pretty. And special. Sherlock only paid attention to me for access to the lab. Thank you, by the way, for whatever you did. He hasn't been 'round since… And the security guard rather frightened him, I think." Beneath her lashes, she noticed Mycroft looking at her closely. Watching her with a sympathetic gaze. She chose instead to focus on his Blackberry, sitting on the table by the teapot.

"It is perfectly… I want to hear," Mycroft said.

Molly took a deep breath. All of the frustration, all of the _fear_ , all of the hurt from being used by Jim and derided by Sherlock and loathed by, it seemed, every one of her colleagues – all of it poured out as she told Mycroft everything. Every date, every abortive attempt at sex, even that terrible night when they'd managed it and Jim had shouted at her afterwards and left, almost before he'd got his clothes back on, leaving her sticky and crying.

When she finished, she dared to look up at Mycroft. To her relief, he didn't look repulsed, but there was something in his eyes that she didn't like at all: a coldness, a calculation.

"It's going to be all right, my dear," Mycroft said. "He can't remain hidden forever. And when he is found, well…" Molly shivered as a deep, dreadful suspicion seeped into her mind.

"Look," she said, "if you're just doing this to get closer to Jim – or if you're getting off on taking what he's left behind…"

"I assure you, I'm not. And I'm not doing this just to find out more about him, I promise," Mycroft said. "My interest in Moriarty is professional. My interest in you is personal. He was a fool and an idiot to toy with you like that, and Sherlock…" Mycroft made a face that could only be described as sour. "Sherlock needs to learn some manners."

Molly managed a smile, and kept her hand where it was.

"And how do you propose for that to happen?" she asked.

"I have an idea or two." Mycroft smiled back at her. "Something involving treacle, perhaps. Sherlock Holmes has a few weaknesses, and…"

Molly giggled.

"It sounds as if you know him quite well," she said.

"Trust me," Mycroft replied.

"I… I think I do."

The silence between them stretched until Mycroft's mobile, which had been sitting quietly next to the teapot, buzzed. Molly jumped as he snatched his hand away and picked it up.

"I must go," he said. "Please, I know it is unorthodox, but please consider my request to, erm, court you."

"Court me?" Molly nearly burst out laughing as she stood with him. "Nobody's ever offered _that_ before."

"Poor choice of words, perhaps," Mycroft murmured, bending to pick up his umbrella. As he straightened, he looked directly at Molly. "Think about it though," he said, leaning forward and brushing his lips to hers.

Molly would never know what possessed her as she stepped into his partial embrace to return the kiss, her hand raised to his cheek.

Around them, the other patrons of the coffee shop ignored them politely – which meant of course, that they were eagerly watching out of the corners of their eyes.

Mycroft's mobile buzzed again, more insistently.

"Ah, duty calls," he sighed. "I will be in touch."

Molly clutched the back of the chair, hoping not to fall backwards. It wasn't the _best_ kiss she'd ever had, but it did rank in the top three at least (not that there had been many to compare it to).

"I don't even know your last name…" she croaked as, with a crooked smile, he took his leave.

"More tea, dear?" asked the waitress, materializing at her elbow.

"Oh, what?" Molly spun and nearly fell into the table. When she righted herself, Mycroft had vanished into the street and the waitress was waiting patiently at her side. "He's not going to call me, is he?" Molly said to nobody in particular.

"Oh, I doubt that, dear," the waitress said, "He never brings anyone here, so he must think you're special."

"Oh, does he come here often?"

"Yes, he does, dear, and nice as can be, too, for somebody as important as he is. You can tell by the way he handles himself, you know. He's got many things on his mind."

"Erm, yes."

"You might want to ask him about his ring, though, if you're going to be kissing him like that in public."

"Oh, I – well, I hadn't noticed, but I suppose I should…"

"Yes, quite, dear."

* * *

There were flowers at her home the next evening, with a note:

"Are you fond of opera? I have two tickets to _Tosca_ at Covent Garden for tomorrow evening. Wear something appropriate for the Royal Box. I will pick you up at 19.30 – MH."

"Of all the cheek!" Molly exclaimed to Toby, who was sniffing the flowers preparatory to taking a bite. Still, it _was_ the Royal Box. Not every day a girl got taken to the opera.

Molly hummed a bit as she dug through her closet looking for something appropriate. She stopped when she realized firstly that she had nothing, and secondly, she had no idea what this opera _Tosca_ was about.

Perhaps she should cancel.

She didn't know how to get in touch with him.

She could just call DI Lestrade; he seemed to know him. Or Sherlock. God, no, not Sherlock.

It wasn't every day she got an invitation to the opera.

She had nothing to wear.

He was probably lying – going to do horrible things to her.

The waitress at the shop had seemed to like him.

He was married, pursuing an extramarital affair. Toying with her.

He was just using her to get close to Jim. Not that it would help – Jim had vanished a long time ago.

DI Lestrade seemed to trust him. He'd got Sherlock banned from Bart's.

She sighed. It really was hopeless. She couldn't call the Detective Inspector – not after what he'd said to her in the interrogation room.

Just then, her phone rang.

"Erm, Molly? It's John… John Watson," said the voice on the other end.

"Oh, hi, John."

"Listen, Sherlock wanted me to call and ask if you could open the lab for him. Mike's not about and…"

"He's not supposed to be there!"

"He worked a deal – only when you're not around, apparently. How did you manage that, anyway?"

"It's better not to ask. Mycroft might be annoyed."

"Oh, God, this has something to do with _him_?" John sounded pained.

"Perhaps you can help me in return," Molly said with a sudden flash of brilliance. If the DI knew, perhaps John did, too.

"Sure," replied John. In the background, she could hear Sherlock shouting abuse at the locked door.

"Don't tell Sherlock, I don't want him to… he'll say something, I'm sure. But you know Mycroft, right?"

" _Mycroft_ What about him?"

"Shhh! I don't want Sherlock to hear you, and if he does, I won't give you the combination," Molly hissed.

"Yeah, hang on, let me get away from Sherlock. You're learning from him already."

"Please don't say anything to anybody, John! What do you mean?"

"Mycroft is, like – I don't know what he does, exactly, but he works for the Government in some capacity and it's important. Like, a _really_ big deal. He's involved with MI-5, and I don't know what all. He's kind of scary, why? How do you know him?"

"Scary? Scary how? Is he married?"

"Married? No, not that… no, Sherlock said that he's never married – the ring is a prop. He's powerful. Surely you've noticed that."

"Oh, yeah, he made Detective Inspector Lestrade go pale, I remember that. How come Sherlock knows so much about him?"

"He'd make James _Bond_ go pale! Why do you want to know about him?"

Molly blushed, even though she knew that John couldn't see her.

"Molly? Sherlock's shouting for me. What's the combination?"

"Can I trust him?"

"What? Yeah. If there's anybody in this world you probably _can_ trust, it's Mycroft. But, you know he's like Sherlock – married to his work, so… He's not a bomber, if that's what you're asking. But Molly, _why_?"

"He's taking me to the opera tomorrow night," she mumbled into the phone. "Oh, and the combination is seven-four-eight-eight-two," she blurted out, slamming the phone down.

Okay, powerful. Scary. Not married. Not a bomber. Molly flinched. Government.

Molly squared her shoulders and returned to her closet. The dress she'd worn as a bridesmaid at her cousin's wedding would have to do. It had been totally inappropriate at the time – long and slinky with the occasional sequin, but maybe for an evening out, it would do, even if it wasn't her style at all.

She spent the rest of the night fiddling with her hair.

* * *

At 19.30 precisely, a black Mercedes pulled up in front of Molly's flat. Molly was watching from the window as Mycroft got out, resplendent in a dinner jacket. She noticed he wasn't carrying his umbrella.

Her heart thumped as the doorbell rang. Jim had been handsome enough, Sherlock, drop dead gorgeous, of course, but Mycroft… not like Molly felt she had any right to say so, but by far, the air of confidence and power that he wore, well, it was quite a turn on.

"Molly," Mycroft greeted her, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. "You are _beautiful_."

Molly could feel the blush rise from her sternum to the tips of her ears. She watched as he followed the blush with his eyes.

Tension of a completely different sort than she was used to coiled inside her.

This was going to be an interesting evening.

* * *

She didn't understand a word of the opera, but the music was pretty and the Royal Box posh. At least, that's what she managed to splutter at the first intermission, as she gingerly sipped champagne.

Mycroft looked disappointed.

"Should we have gone to the cinema?" he asked.

"No!" exclaimed Molly, "I'm just… I'm sorry, I'm out of my depth here. I'm more used to spending my nights with dead people, I guess." A high, nervous giggle escaped her. The other members of the party, men in formal dress and women in stately silks and flowers, glanced at her with scorn.

"I'm sorry," Molly said for the third time. "I am enjoying this, really." She fought for a smile. "I like the music – the last bit…"

"The _te deum_?"

"Yeah, that was really… nice."

Mycroft smirked. "It's probably my fault," he said. "I shouldn't have invited you to an opera where a beautiful yet headstrong woman is sought after by an evil, powerful man who will do anything to possess her."

"What happens next?"

"Scarpia persuades Tosca to reveal the hiding place of Angelotti and tries to seduce her, while he tortures Cavaradossi where she can hear him. Tosca despairs for her lover's life when it is made known that Angelotti has killed himself. Scarpia then tells her that if she spends the night with him, he will stage Cavaradossi's execution, allowing him to survive and them both to escape.

"Tosca agrees and as Scarpia goes to embrace her, she stabs and kills him."

"Oh my God." Molly felt the blood draining from her face. "People watch this for _fun_?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Well, not fun, exactly. It gets worse, I'm afraid. Scarpia, even in death, manages to destroy the lovers, as the execution was genuine and Cavaradossi is killed. Scarpia's body is found, and Tosca leaps from the top of the Castel Sant' Angelo to her death.

"Christ! That's horrible, Mycroft! That poor woman!" Molly clapped her free hand over her mouth as the group in the corner glared at her again.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I… I'm not very good at this."

"No, this is my fault. You're not enjoying this, and I… I'm truly sorry, Molly. We should perhaps go." Mycroft turned, set his champagne flute down, and offered her his arm.

"Mycroft, wait," Molly said, putting her hand out. "One question."

"Yes?"

"Is the music in the rest of it as good as the beginning?"

Mycroft paused.

"Yes. Puccini was a master of his art."

"And, despite the story, you _enjoy_ this? For the music and the singing?"

"Madam Radvanovsky is the best Tosca I have ever heard. Her voice, her whole being, was _made_ for this role, yes."

Molly watched as Mycroft's expression softened.

"Then we'll stay," she said.

"You mean… Thank you, Molly." Mycroft smiled.

"You like this," she replied. "And I'll put up with it for you. Just this once, though." She grinned.

* * *

In the Mercedes it was quiet and dark. The driver and Mycroft's assistant (her Blackberry perpetually aglow) were in the front, barricaded behind dark glass. Mycroft sat close to her, his arm brushing her coat sleeve. Molly decided she rather liked it.

"She did it for love, didn't she?" Molly asked.

"And politics. Yes."

Molly reached out and took Mycroft's hand.

"It's all quite sad, isn't it," she said – and again, wanted to kick herself for sounding so vapid. He was obviously a cultured, intelligent man.

And she liked pop music.

"Many great tragedies create great works of art," Mycroft mused, shifting closer to her. Molly traced her fingers over the ring. Beside her, Mycroft stiffened.

"Tell me about it?" she said. "If that's… okay."

For a moment, she thought she'd said the wrong thing. And then Mycroft spoke.

"Her name was Elizabeth. She was a violinist. She taught me to love opera, actually. When I was at university, my taste in music was more geared to bands like Led Zeppelin, I'm afraid."

"There's nothing wrong with Led Zeppelin. My brother…"

"An excellent band," Mycroft agreed. "But Elizabeth opened up a whole new world to me."

"And you were married?"

"For fifteen months, yes."

"What happened?"

"She died. The car she was driving was hit by a drunk driver."

"Oh, God. I'm…" Sorry didn't even begin to cover it. Molly searched for something, _anything_ to say.

"Nobody else knows about this, Molly," Mycroft said. "Not my family, only a few of my colleagues from whom I cannot hide anything. I …" He grasped her hand in hers. "It wouldn't do for me to _have_ a past, really."

 _Whatever he does for the government, he's really powerful. That's a bit… that's a bit of a turn on, actually._

"Do you have family at all?"

 _There, that's diplomatic enough. Better than asking him if he's invaded any countries before teatime today._

"A brother. We rarely communicate." Mycroft's voice sounded pinched, much like Mike Stamford's did when he was talking about Sherlock, actually.

Molly fidgeted on the seat, glancing at the glass that separated them from the driver. It was fair, she supposed. He knew everything about Jim.

 _You can't compare your psychotic ex-boyfriend to his dead wife and estranged brother, you nit._

"The driver cannot hear us," Mycroft whispered in her ear. "I'm telling you this because I trust you, Molly. And Elizabeth would have liked you, in truth."

"You're not over her yet, are you?" Molly asked quietly. She cringed at the way it sounded like an accusation.

"That's a fair statement. But now, now I wear the ring to remember her."

"I can't…" Mycroft leaned closer to her, pulling her towards him, wrapping his free arm around her. "I can't be her," Molly finished.

"You're not her. She was part of my past – I honor that past, but this, Molly, this is the present."

"And right now?" Molly asked, turning to face him; there didn't seem to be enough air in the car all of a sudden.

"Right now, I should very much like to kiss you again."

"Mycroft…"

Whatever it was that Molly was about to say was cut off as Mycroft kissed her.

Molly froze. She could push him away – tell him to piss off, that she wasn't interested in being dragged to the opera, meeting in discreet teashops, being told she was beautiful when she wasn't, having only half of the story – she knew exactly four things about this man, after all: that he liked opera, had been married, had a brother he didn't see and didn't like sweet pastries.

But he was also kind, sexy (in a way that Sherlock certainly wasn't, or that she could even describe), intelligent as hell, and even had a sense of humor that she liked.

Plus, he liked Led Zeppelin.

Mycroft pulled back.

"You're uncertain," he said. Then, stiffly, "I apologize. I will drop you off at your flat."

Molly took a deep breath. Sometimes she did stupid things. Jim, for example. This time, maybe, given John's somewhat dubious reassurances – maybe this time it was the _right_ thing. And she still could tell him where he could get off.

It was just a kiss, after all.

 _Oh, stop dithering, will you?_

"Wait," she said, and leaned toward him, pressing her lips to his.

It was gentle at first, tentative, like the kiss in the coffee shop, but Molly wasn't having any of that. Kisses with Jim had been perfunctory – like signing for a package – but in the second that she made her decision, she knew that she had to see where this was going, if only because John Watson had told her she could trust him, and she _had_ enjoyed the opera. She daringly flicked her tongue against his lips and was rewarded with a shudder and his mouth opening against hers.

"Molly," he murmured against her lips.

His mouth was warm and tasted of champagne, as she was sure hers did as well. She pressed against him, hoping that the driver could not only not hear them but also not see them as his hands wrapped around her shoulder and side.

"Molly," Mycroft gasped again, breaking the kiss. He looked stunned, and Molly felt all her insecurities flooding back.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Perhaps you should drop me off."

"Don't apologize," he replied, pulling her back to him and kissing her deeply, soundly, exploring her mouth with his tongue as his hands moved over her, pulling her close, tracing the curve of her neck and shoulders. He broke away from her mouth, following the path of his hands with his lips and teeth and tongue.

Molly was certain that if it were possible to die of passion, just from being kissed, she would be the first.

It was heaven.

The car suddenly stopped, and there was a discreet tap on the glass.

Molly pulled away, delighted by the way Mycroft looked disheveled and… well, _lustful_.

Jim had _never_ looked at her that way.

"I suppose this is where I get out," she said.

Mycroft coughed.

"Quite," he replied. "I will walk you to your door, of course." He unlocked his door, and the driver pulled it open for him. Molly bit her lips to keep from laughing as he somewhat stiffly got out of the car and turned to help her out, the bulge in his trousers evident, at least from her angle. She wondered briefly if the driver noticed it, too. She was certain his assistant did not, as she also stood by the car, immersed in her Blackberry. Molly wondered if she was actually using it for her work, or if she was playing solitaire.

But really, who brought an assistant and driver on a date?

Mycroft, apparently. Mycroft, who had his hand on the small of her back as he escorted her to her flat.

"Thank you, Mycroft," she said, as they reached her door and she unlocked it. "I had a lovely evening."

"Thank you, Molly, the pleasure was all mine."

"You can kiss me again, if you like," Molly said. "I'd rather like that, actually."

Mycroft smiled. "I'm terribly afraid that if I do, I will not be able to stop," he said, leaning close to her. She could feel the warmth of him pressed against her, the hardness of his erection. _She_ had caused that.

She felt a surge of power.

"I don't see how that's a problem," Molly whispered.

"I don't either," he replied, "but…"

"Ah, the world is watching." She frowned at the floor, scuffed and scratched.

"I rather think, though, my dear, that there should be a time, very soon, where I do _not_ stop," he whispered in her ear.

"Oh, God, yes!" Molly said, before she could stop herself.

"Just so," Mycroft agreed with a smile, pressing a very chaste kiss to her lips. "If you need me, for any reason," he said as he pulled away, handing her a card, "call this number. Day or night. You can also text if you desire, but I find it… plebeian

"Thank you—" Molly started to say, looking up from the card, as she saw his black-clad back disappearing down the stairwell.

The card was blank, but for a phone number and the initials MH.

* * *

Molly overslept and barely made it in to work the next morning.

When she arrived, she rather wished that she hadn't made it in at all.

Sherlock was in her office adjoining the lab, poking at her computer with a furious frown on his face.

"What are you doing here? How did you get onto my computer?"

"Ah, Molly. Night of passion? Who with? And really? _Toby_? Not very cryptic."

"What?"

"Your hair is still stiff from all the hairspray you put in it last night, there are traces of eyeliner still clinging to your eyelids, and a whiff of perfume – good God, what is that? It smells like a florist's skip!"

"It's none of your business," Molly snapped, furious at the blush that was threatening to overwhelm her. "And get off my computer."

"As a matter of fact, I believe it is. Another member of the IT department?"

"No! It's not!" At that inauspicious moment, the boy from the mailroom entered with a whacking great bunch of Gerbera daises.

"For you, Dr Hooper." The boy grinned. "Here's the card. Whoever this MH is, he's dead gone on you, isn't he?"

"Ah, Gerbera daises," Sherlock said, pouncing on them. "Somebody made a good impression."

"Do you mind?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do, considering who your last _boyfriend_ was. Who is it this time, Molly?"

The lab door opened again.

"Sherlock. Of course," said Mycroft. "As I recall, you're not supposed to be within fifteen meters of Dr Hooper."

"What are _you_ doing here?" Sherlock demanded, pushing past Molly and the daisies.

"Visiting Dr Hooper."

"Visiting…"

Molly watched as Sherlock put two and two together.

" _You_ sent the flowers? _You're_ the reason she's looking all… happy?"

"Sherlock! Behave yourself. This is Mycroft." Molly strove to be calm. She could do this. She was free to date anyone she pleased. "He's not a bomber."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "He's not that. A meddler, perhaps, more dangerous than your last boyfriend, certainly, and probably the biggest pain in the arse to ever grace the British Isles, or the world, but not a bomber. He prefers to kill people more _discreetly_. "

"Sherlock…" This time the warning came from Mycroft.

"Yes, brother mine? Anything else you haven't bothered to tell our Molly? How about the assassinations of foreign dictators? I'm sure she'd love to hear about that!"

"That's enough, Sherlock."

"Wait…" Molly felt about four steps behind the conversation as the two men on either side of her glowered at each other. "You _know_ each other? You're his brother?"

Sherlock burst out laughing.

"Oh well done, Mycroft, you didn't bother to tell her about us?"

Mycroft looked annoyed, more than that he looked angry. Molly glanced down and saw his fingers tighten on his umbrella.

"It wasn't necessary."

"Oh, really? It wasn't necessary to tell poor Dr Hooper that the man who took her to the opera and then kissed her senseless in the back of his car, much to the delight of Anthea I'm sure, was Sherlock Holmes' big brother?"

"Not everything revolves around _you_ , Sherlock, and that includes my personal life."

"But you didn't tell her. Oh, tut, Mycroft, what would Mummy say?"

"You leave her out of this."

"Wait!" cried Molly. "Stop!"

"You." she said, turning to Mycroft, "are his brother?"

"Yes," Mycroft admitted, looking pained.

"And it didn't occur to you that I _might_ have wanted to know that?"

"I didn't think it was important. My relationship to Sherlock is… difficult. You didn't need to know about it."

"Ha! See, Molly? Apparently you have once again managed to find a boyfriend who… tell me, did 'Jim from IT' tell you anything about himself before you let him shag you? Do you like not knowing anything about the men you fuck?"

"Sherlock! That is quite enough. You will _not_ speak to Dr Hooper in that manner. Do you understand me?"

"Oh what are you, Mycroft, her knight in an expensive suit? You always did have an unnecessarily chivalrous streak."

But Molly had had enough.

"You utter berk!" she shouted, spinning to Sherlock. "Mycroft didn't shag me, if you must know – he's too much of a gentleman!"

Sherlock made a noise that sounded like "right, whatever" but Molly was too incensed to care.

"He's been kind to me, hasn't mocked me, actually _listened_ – and so what if he did snog me senseless, it's a damn sight more than _you'll_ ever get. God, you're so infuriating. Why do you have to ruin everything?" She pushed past him and stumbled to her office, hoping beyond all hope she wouldn't start crying until she could slam the door.

"On the contrary, I merely pointed out the obvious." The damn bastard was actually smirking. Rage twisted in Molly's gut and she spun, pointing to the door.

"Get. Out."

"Really?" Sherlock pouted. "Is that the best you can do?"

"You're banned. I don't ever, ever want to see you again. And that includes me and the entire staff of St Bart's!"

"Molly, be serious." He turned on his smile, the one Molly saw only when he really wanted something.

"I am serious," she said, proud of the steadiness in her voice. "Leave. Now. Or I will call security."

"You'd better do as she says, Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly.

"I'll be…"

"OUT!" Furious, Molly picked up a beaker, wishing that it were filled with something corrosive, and threw it at him. It missed, shattering on the doorframe. In the back of her mind, it occurred to her that she wasn't behaving very professionally, but she was beyond caring.

Sherlock spun, brushing past his brother hard enough to make him stumble, and yanked open the door, almost running into John Watson.

"I will return," he said, as Molly threw another beaker at him. This one happened to be full. John ducked out of the way with a startled "Christ!" as the beaker shattered on the floor. Acid hissed merrily as it consumed the linoleum tiles.

"Molly, I…" Mycroft started to speak and she jerked her head to him.

"You too," she said. "I am sick to death of _anything_ Holmes."

"Let me at least apologize for my brother's actions."

"Your brother's? How about yours? Were you just leading me on? Did it make you feel more powerful to have a woman hanging on your every word? Smiling vacantly at you? Practically throwing herself at you?"

"Molly, none of those things…"

"I _hate_ you," she spat. "I hate you and I hate your brother! Get out of my lab now. Get out, get out, get OUT!" She picked up a stapler and hurled it at him. Mycroft raised his umbrella almost faster than she could track and parried the flying piece of office equipment. It clattered to the floor.

She spun, racing for her office, where she slammed the door and collapsed into her chair, sobbing. Catching sight of the daisies on her desk, she swept them angrily into the bin and kicked it across the room for good measure.

She had been such a fool.

* * *

The flowers kept coming to her flat, and eventually she sent a text to the number he had given her:

 _STOP SENDING ME FUCKING FLOWERS_. How was that for plebeian?

The flowers stopped, and she heard nothing more from him. Just as she'd demanded.

It hurt like hell.

John Watson called her once and asked how she was doing.

"Fine," she snapped and hung up.

He called her again, said something about Sarah and Lestrade (she wasn't sure who Sarah was), and asked her to the cinema.

She didn't even bother to answer, merely slammed the phone down.

John stopped calling.

She got a great deal of work done without Sherlock hanging about.

Mike Stamford gave her pitying looks, but aside from that, nobody seemed to pay any attention to her at all.

She taught her new class.

She performed her autopsies.

She even testified down the Old Bailey. Detective Inspector Lestrade thanked her afterwards for her help. She congratulated him on his new relationship. He grinned broadly – she supposed it was the grin of the regularly-shagged. Not that she would know.

"How's, erm… Sarah?"

"Great," Lestrade replied. "Did John Watson tell you he introduced us? Well, he was unconscious at the time – and she was there, waiting to see him, and one thing led to another…"

"Yeah, great." Molly turned away.

"Look, Dr Hooper," Lestrade said. "I… you were completely right to shove me into your fern that night. I shouldn't have… it was unprofessional to suggest… and…" Molly turned and he shoved out his hand.

"Truce?" he asked.

Molly managed a tight smile as she took his hand.

"Sure," she replied.

Mostly, she just stayed home.

She fed and petted Toby.

She got Chinese take-away every Thursday night and watched 'Master Chef' by herself.

She saw on the news that there was unrest in Korea and wondered if Mycroft had anything to do with it.

She tried not to feel sorry for herself.

She felt like a complete failure.

She _was_ a complete failure.

* * *

Four Thursday nights after the fight in the lab, Molly was coming home late. She'd almost missed her take-away, but the owner of the restaurant kept it open long enough for her to get her dumplings and rice.

Sighing (four autopsies in one day, one suspicious poisoning, three burn victims), she let herself into her flat, wishing she didn't smell like formaldehyde, charred flesh and death.

Dropping the Chinese carrier bag onto her kitchen table, she kicked off her shoes and padded into her bedroom to undress and shower. Even Toby seemed to have deserted her.

On her bed, petting Toby with one hand and reading his slim notebook with his other, lay Mycroft Holmes. He was wearing dark trousers and a gleaming white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tie (red) was loosened, and the top buttons were undone. His suit jacket was draped over her bedpost. Molly caught her breath at the sight – she was certain that _nobody_ had ever seen him so relaxed. She also remembered that she was still very angry with him. _Then_ , she remembered that her flat had been securely locked when she arrived home.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" she demanded.

He looked up as Toby jumped down.

"I came to apologize. Again. Flowers didn't seem to be working."

"No, they didn't work. And you think coming round, sprawling on my bed, and seducing my cat will?"

"The seduction of Toby was entirely unintentional." Mycroft looked embarrassed.

"And how did you get into my flat in the first place?"

"James Moriarty is not the only one who can pick locks," Mycroft pointed out.

Molly flinched, and covered it by folding her arms across her chest. She knew he had noticed, but it was _something_.

"Oh, right," she said. "Well. If I tell you to leave, what happens?"

"I leave. You won't have to threaten me, either. Or call the police. Or throw me into greenery."

Molly felt her lips twitch. "And will you return? Break into my flat again? Leave scary notes? Boil Toby?"

"Oh, God, no."

"So… what is this, then?"

"My last chance to woo you."

"Woo me?" Molly looked askance. "Sounds more like you're being a bloody stalker, if you ask me."

"A fair assessment. Is that your wish then, that I leave?"

"Do you have anything to say?"

"In my defense? Only this: I misjudged you, and because of that, I misled you. Wrongly, it turns out. I asked you to trust me, and then I didn't trust you. It was an inexcusable offense and for it I am heartily sorry. I am also exceptionally sorry that Sherlock said those things to you, and that I put you in such a circumstance that would cause him to say those things. Again, the fault is mine."

Molly scowled. It was too reminiscent of an Austen novel for her liking.

"I esteem you highly, Dr Hooper, I respect you and admire you. Beyond that… well, we shall see what comes next. It is my wish to discover that with you.

"There are some things that, out of necessity, I cannot share with you, details about my work – you can imagine that my hours are unusual as well, but beyond that, I would very much like to be your…" He trailed off, as if searching for an appropriate word.

"It's called a _boyfriend_ Mycroft," Molly supplied helpfully, with latent sarcasm.

"Just so."

"And?"

Molly waited for a long moment. Tears welled in her eyes. It had been a long, difficult day.

"I need more time, Mycroft. I can't just…" She lifted her hands and let them drop to her sides, wrinkling her nose at the smell that wafted off of her. She was tired, she was heartsick, she was _smelly_.

"I need a shower," she announced. "You can do what you like." She grabbed her trackie bottoms and a sweatshirt and stalked through her room to the bathroom. "There's Chinese in the kitchen, if you want some," she tossed over her shoulder.

* * *

The water in her shower was hot and soothing. Leaning against the tiles, she let the water sluice over her, washing away the tension and depression of the day.

She was half-hoping that Mycroft would come in while she showered. She wondered what it would be like, what her life would be like if she accepted his apology. She wondered what it would be like for him to make love to her.

She wondered if she truly were a fool. Or just ridiculous. He would probably be gone by the time she got out of the shower.

When she finished, she eschewed the trackie bottoms and sweatshirt for her dressing gown. If he had left, there would be no point in getting dressed.

* * *

Mycroft was pouring wine when she emerged, clean and clad in her dressing gown, with her hair neatly brushed and still wet from the shower.

Molly wasn't sure whether she should throw herself or a plate at him.

Damn him for being persistent.

He stopped pouring and set the bottle down with a 'thunk,' staring at her.

"Does that mean," he asked, swallowing hard, "that you are considering my offer favorably?"

Molly allowed herself a smile. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't going to be all bad.

"Let's discuss it over dinner," she said. "We've missed 'Master Chef', but Newsnight is coming on."

Mycroft smirked.

"If you see anything worth watching on Newsnight," he said, "my people will be sacked immediately for gross incompetence."

Molly knew she should probably be completely terrified by that statement, but instead found herself not only amused but also just a little aroused.

Not that she'd admit it.

"I think maybe we should talk, though," she said, trying to cover the flush of attraction. She might still be incredibly peeved at him, but there was a certain allure.  
 _Stay firm, Hooper. You do this on your terms, for once in your life._

Mycroft nodded.

"You wish to have your say."

"It would be _nice_." Molly noticed she was improving at sarcasm. She felt a flicker of pride. "But first, let's eat."

* * *

It turned out that Mycroft, the master of the British government, was not a master of chopsticks.

"How did you not learn?" Molly giggled, spearing a dumpling. "Surely you've eaten…"

"I tend not to eat on… business trips," Mycroft said, chasing a prawn around his plate. "It slows me down."

"Sherlock says…"

"The same thing, yes. We _are_ brothers."

"You worry about him."

"Constantly." Mycroft gave up on the prawn and sipped his wine.

"And yet he…" Molly shook her head. She paused for a moment and then conceded, "For what it's worth, you're my favorite Holmes."

Mycroft smiled. "Thank you."

"That doesn't mean you're forgiven for breaking into my flat. Or for not telling me you two are related."

Mycroft said nothing.

"And then there's this… whatever it is." Molly waved her hand expressively. "I … You … you were kind to me when I needed it, and you had faith in me and even sent me a replacement fern."

Mycroft acknowledged the point with a brief smile and nod of his head.

"But you also tried to manipulate me. You didn't tell me the whole story, and as you said yourself, you didn't trust me. Not fully."

The silence stretched between them. Molly examined the stem of her wineglass.

"So, I don't know what to do, Mycroft. I don't know what to tell you."

"What does your intellect say, Molly?"

Molly smiled.

"To throw you out on your sorry arse. However attractive it might be."

She felt more than a flicker of satisfaction as she watched Mycroft blush.

"There is that option," he agreed. "For obvious reasons, not the option I would prefer."

"No. I can see that. The other option would be to forgive you and to take the chance that you are telling me the truth. That you are interested in me, for me, not for Jim, or Sherlock, or my laboratory, or my cadavers."

"It is a risk. But I assure you, my intentions are true."

Molly tried not to roll her eyes at the clumsily worded, practically archaic statement. "We take risks when we have a relationship with _anyone_ , Mycroft," Molly said, suddenly annoyed with the conversation, the situation, the whole mess. Why couldn't it just be _simple_? A date, a few flowers, some conversation. A shag.

She stood and grabbed the plates off the table, carrying them to the sink.

"Would you at least allow me to wash up before you toss me out on my," Mycroft coughed, "arse?"

"And you think you can work your way back into my good books by doing the washing up? Do you even know how?"

Mycroft grabbed a discloth.

"I assure you," he said. "I am an expert at washing up. I could use someone to dry, however."

* * *

They sat on the sofa with the rest of the wine, listening to the rain fall outside.

And drip down into her fern.

"Ah, that is why you have it in such an inconvenient place," Mycroft observed. "I knew it!"

"You're sounding a bit too triumphant about that," Molly grumbled. "Yes. I keep the fern in that corner because it doesn't need too much light and it catches most of the leak when it rains."

"Practical _and_ clever." Mycroft nodded approvingly. "Although, your landlord should fix that for you."

Molly allowed herself a smile. She looked at Mycroft, sitting at the other end of her sofa, holding his glass as if it might explode.

"You're still worried I'm going to kick you out," she finally said.

"The possibility had crossed my mind," Mycroft replied, setting the glass down on the floor. "You're still angry with me. Rightly so."

"Not as angry as I was."

Molly noticed that a corner of his mouth twitched a bit.

"Was that a sign of hope?" she asked archly.

"I cannot deny it."

"If we do this," she said, "whatever _this_ turns out to be, you won't lie to me. If there's something you can't tell me, tell me _that_ , don't try to hide it. Trust me, I'm stronger than I look."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Mycroft replied seriously. "I've seen you…"

"Don’t tease me about the damn fern, again."

"On the contrary, I've seen you exhibit strength that belies your gentle exterior. Your mannerisms all indicate you'd never hurt a fly, but Molly, the work you do, the help you provide to grieving families, to the police, to yes, on occasion, my loathsome brother, the way you stood up to me, to Inspector Lestrade, to Moriarty… all of those things, Molly, have shown me just what a strong, attractive, beautiful woman you are."

Molly put her wineglass down and tucked her feet beneath her, effectively kneeling on the sofa.

"Well," she murmured, leaning towards him. "With an endorsement like that…"

Mycroft stiffened.

"Relax," Molly said. "And let me kiss you. _That_ should tell you just how angry I am."

The kiss was soft. Mycroft didn't move at first, allowing her to brush her lips over his. But when she brought her hand to his face, teasing his lips with her tongue, his entire body shuddered, and he began to kiss her back.

It was still controlled, still precise, still very tentative but it felt _right_.

"Molly," Mycroft breathed, pulling away to rest his forehead on hers. "If you truly have forgiven me…"

"I'll take it under advisement," Molly whispered. "But do you know, I'd really like to see where this might lead. Just for the sake of… I don't know, experimentation?"

Mycroft's searing kiss answered her.

* * *

Which was how Molly ended up astride Mycroft on her sofa, kissing him as if her very life depended on it.

He tasted of wine and heaven. She could feel his erection beneath her and, on an impulse born of sheer desire, she rotated her hips, deeply, slowly.

"Oh, my God, Molly," Mycroft groaned. "You have to understand," he whispered, "this does not usually fall into my remit."

"It's okay," she murmured, kissing his neck, pulling away his tie and unbuttoning his shirt with gentle fingers, "I'm a bit out of practice myself."

Suddenly, what had been a smoldering attraction, slow and tentative, became an inferno, blazing to life as she ground against him when he pulled her closer. She felt him inhale against her.

He was not close enough. He would never be close enough.

* * *

Their flight to the bed was anything but dignified – Molly managed to undo his belt buckle and top button and was struggling with his zip as best she could, with Mycroft's lips practically glued to her neck and shoulders.

His hands seemed to be everywhere, struggling to undo her robe, pushing it down around her shoulders and then her waist, as he began to kiss and caress her breasts and stomach.

His hands were wrapped in her hair. It was awkward. It was heaven.

They collapsed on the bed together in a tangle of limbs and half-discarded clothing.

"This is ridiculous," Mycroft said, rolling away from her and grappling with his trousers as Molly took the opportunity to wriggle out of her robe. She paused, suddenly self-conscious as Mycroft tugged off his socks and pants and stood before her.

He was slender, not rail-thin like his brother – more solid, but not leaning to fat. His body was not muscular or athletic, but even naked and erect, he exuded a confidence that not even Sherlock could match. He was pale – his was not a profession that brought him out of doors much – but then, she had never tanned herself.

"Oh, Mycroft," she whispered. All doubt and self-consciousness vanished, and she held out her arms to him.

"Molly," he answered, and he was in her arms, worshiping her body, pressing himself to her as she wrapped her legs around him.

"Please," she cried, bucking up against his erection. "Please."

Mycroft drew back, and with a tender smile, he caressed his way down her neck, laving her breasts with his tongue – nothing to write home about, she thought, but he seemed to be worshiping them.

She must have made a noise.

"I want to," he said, looking up at her from her torso, his eyes alight. Molly shuddered.

"So very beautiful," he murmured again, lowering his lips to her stomach, moving down, caressing and licking. "I want to see." His eyes glittered, and she felt a wave of lust as he drew his hands down her hips and to her pelvis. Molly grasped at the pillows surrounding her, as he gently parted her legs.

"I want to taste," he murmured. "I want to smell. I want to touch." He dipped his head, and his tongue drew across her cunt.

Molly's head dropped back and she moaned. "Oh, yes!"

Mycroft's answering chuckle sent jolts of desire through her. But it wasn't enough.

"I need you," she gasped raggedly. "I need you."

"Yes," Mycroft responded, raising his head, moving back up her body to kiss her. Molly took advantage, grasping his cock with her hand. He hissed in pleasure as he settled between her thighs. Stretching, he reached to her nightstand and pulled open a drawer.

"How did you …," Molly started to ask as he pulled the unused packet of condoms from the drawer. "Never mind," she finished as Mycroft chuckled darkly, rolling the condom onto his cock.

"Guide me," he groaned, leaning forward as she reached for him, pulling him towards her.

"Oh, God," she murmured as he slid home.

Molly groaned as he began to thrust, and she tilted her pelvis as he brought his hand between them. "Oh, _yes_."

Mycroft gasped and continued to thrust. Molly tightened around him as she felt the first signs of her impending climax.

"Mycroft, I'm…" she whispered, freeing her hands and pulling him towards her. "Please," she murmured.

Taken aback by her sudden movement, Mycroft slid into her fully, filling her as she ground against his pelvis.

"Mycroft, oh, God, _Mycroft_." His name was a moan as she came.

"Molly, you're going to make… Fuck!" Mycroft swore explosively as his climax overwhelmed him and he collapsed onto his elbows above her. "Molly, my Molly," he whispered, bringing a hand to her face, pushing aside her tangled hair.

"Well," Molly said, "that was something. The great Mycroft Holmes does know a few rude words."

His answering chuckle tugged at her heart.

"Only one," he murmured.

* * *

It was only hour eight of her twelve-hour shift. It was also ridiculously late, and she had a mountain of paperwork.

Molly peeked out into the corridor – nobody was present. Good.

She returned to her office and clipped her iPod into the player.

  
_'cuz baby you're a firework_

 _c'mon show them what you're worth!_

Molly bounced and twirled. She was completely unaware of the presence in her office until she bounced into him.

"Mycroft!" she cried over Katy Perry's holler, flushing a deep and – she was sure – unbecoming red.

He reached out and clicked off the device.

"Do you _enjoy_ listening to that?" he asked.

"Yes." She prepared for the inevitable argument; one couldn't listen to opera _all_ the time, could one?

"It sounds like a cat being abused." Mycroft picked up her iPod and sneered at the album cover on the small screen.

"Well, it's peppy. And it's late, and I'm tired, and I have too many hours left on this shift, and…"

Mycroft smiled. "It's hideous," he said. "But it makes you happy…" And he kissed her, gently propelling her back until her legs hit her desk.

"Have you ever made love in your place of work, Molly?" His voice was sheer temptation. Molly shuddered and was very grateful her door had a lock not even Sherlock could foil.

When he flew her to New York to see Katy Perry in concert for her birthday, she pretended not to notice his sour expression and ear plugs.

* * *

"You _own_ a river."

Mycroft gave her a look that clearly said, "Doesn't everyone?" Molly rolled her eyes and thought he looked ridiculous in his waders.

"I don't own the river – I own the fishing rights to the river," he explained pedantically.

Molly shook her head and picked her way through the bracken to stand at his side.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"It's a river."

"Finest salmon on the island." Mycroft took in a great lungful of air and waded out to the middle of the stream, clutching his rod and reel. "This, Molly – this is _living_!"

Molly grinned half-heartedly and spotted a stone that looked dry and relatively free of bugs. She sat, tipping her head back to catch the sun as it streamed through the trees.

It was then she realized – there were no sounds of traffic, no car horns, no sirens, no rumbling of the underground. All she could hear was the sound of the breeze, the river, and the birds – the sounds of _life_.

Those sounds, and Mycroft's occasional shout of glee (or frustration) as he did battle with the fish.

Molly sighed happily – it _was_ fishing, but perhaps she could get used to it.

* * *

They had collapsed, giggling – yes, even Mycroft was giggling – onto his bed. The next few minutes were spent scrabbling at sheets and pillows. "Even I don't have as many of the bloody things," Molly cried, walloping him with a pillow.

Mycroft rolled suddenly, pinning her beneath him.

"I'll have you know that that particular pillow is a family heirloom," he said severely, leaning to nibble at her neck, moving up to her earlobe.

"Oh, I had no… I'm sorry." The penny dropped: Mycroft was giggling again. "You utter git! Let me guess, it's a present from a femme fatale, whom you had to seduce in order to steal nuclear secrets from the Russians!"

"Close," he replied, bending to lick the shell of her ear. Molly shuddered. "It was from my Aunt Eugenia."

Molly laughed and pushed him off her and straddled him. She rejoiced in the frankly lascivious look in his eye as she began to draw her top off.

"Stay," she said, relishing the power over him – he might control the whims of the British government (and the world, for all she knew) but right now, _she_ was in charge.

"Will I be permitted to help?" he asked.

Molly pretended to consider the proposition.

"No," she replied, "I rather think not."

Molly smirked as she pulled off her blouse and began to fiddle with the back clasp of her bra, rolling her shoulders back as it came unhooked.

"Oh my God, Molly, you are so beautiful," Mycroft whispered, reaching up to caress her as she dropped the bit of lace and nylon. "Perfect," he said, leaning up to lave her breasts with his tongue.

"Sir?"

Mycroft's head dropped to the pillow and he groaned as Molly squeaked and dived for cover. She needn't have bothered; Anthea remained in the doorway to the bedroom and did not look up from her Blackberry.

"Yes?" Mycroft asked, barely containing his impatience as he handed Molly her bra.

"It's the Yemenis, sir."

"Oh… bugger," Mycroft sighed. Molly pulled her blouse back on and bit back a grin. Even when he resorted to profanity, Mycroft was ever refined.

"Mycroft, don't worry," Molly said. "We can reschedule."

Mycroft rolled off the bed and reached for his shoes.

"Does Thursday evening work?" Anthea asked brightly.

* * *

"Your brother is sulking again, isn't he?"

Molly could tell by the set of Mycroft's jaw as she sat down opposite him in the teashop in Pimlico.

"He's unbearable!"

Molly chuckled and leaned across the table for a kiss.

"Will you _please_ let him back into the lab?" Mycroft asked plaintively as she drew away.

Molly frowned. "Really?" she asked.

"Truly."

"On one condition."

"Name it."

"We have dinner with him, and he apologizes _and_ promises not to insult me anymore."

Mycroft's grin was of the sort that made right-thinking leaders of the world wet themselves. "That's three conditions," he said. "But I rather think he'll be willing to accommodate them."

****

Dinner with John and Sherlock was at a little hole-and-corner place that served amazing Italian food.

"Housebreaker?" Mycroft asked Sherlock, as the owner seated them.

"Mostly," Sherlock acknowledged. "Spot of extortion, too."

"Not a murderer, though," John chimed in, brightly.

"Oh, no, of course not," said Molly, resolving to make Mycroft explain just how he managed to _know_ these things.

After Sherlock had made his requisite apology and promises (grudgingly), John cleared his throat.

"As you know, Mycroft, you once asked me if you were to expect a happy announcement. Well, I – that is Sherlock and I – would like to tell you that…"

Sherlock looked pained as Molly squealed and raced around the table to kiss them both on the cheek.

"Oh, well done, little brother," Mycroft said.

"Critical comment?" Sherlock asked.

"Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact," Mycroft replied, raising his glass. "I wish you every happiness."

* * *

Molly had, over the past few months, become inured to Mycroft's odd hours. Typically, he (Anthea, really, Mycroft never picked up a mobile unless he absolutely had to) would send her a text saying that he had been called away on business and not to wait up.

"Called away on business" could mean an absence of several hours and a broken date, to silence for several days.

He made it up to her, naturally, and Molly tried not to take it personally.

But when Sherlock disappeared around the same time as well, she sought out John.

"I have no idea," John said. He looked older – careworn – the way Molly recalled him looking when they had first met. "He buggers off occasionally, but he almost always comes back. Lestrade doesn't know either." He looked to the kitchen, spotless for once – devoid of any sign of the madman he loved.

"How are he and Sarah?"

"Hm? Great. Wonderful. She'll probably be pregnant by midsummer."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's all right. It wasn't… Sarah and I aren't really… we're not each other's type, and I have Sherlock…"

"When he hasn't vanished," Molly finished for him and could have kicked herself.

"Yeah, well… I suppose that's what happens when we fall in love with a Holmes." John grinned. "You do love him, don't you?"

Molly looked at the floor, blushing.

"Yeah. I haven't told him, but…"

"He's a Holmes, he knows."

"Yeah," Molly agreed.

"Bloody annoying, that."

"Yeah."

****

Sherlock and Mycroft returned simultaneously – Mycroft to his office and Sherlock to the hospital, although he released himself the day after. John had to pick him up down at the local police station, as he had been arrested for indecent exposure.

Molly was heading in to work at the time and received a text from Mycroft.

"I have a present for you when you arrive at Bart's," was all it said.

"It had better be a good one," she grumbled to her phone.

****

"Ah, Molly, I missed you," Mycroft exclaimed, as he rose from her chair and embraced her.

"I missed you too," Molly replied, returning his kiss. "What's this surprise?"

"Ah, in due time – can you forgive me for disappearing? There were complications. And Sherlock was singularly unhelpful."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"As long as John has sufficient bail money – which he does, thanks to me – he will be just fine. Now, your present. It is in the mortuary."

"What?"

Mycroft smiled at her and guided her downstairs.

On table number two lay a body bag.

"You got me a body?"

"Not just any body. Open it." Mycroft was positively bouncing.

Molly approached the body with caution and unzipped the bag. What she saw rendered her speechless for a good five minutes.

"You… you," she croaked, when her voice and higher brain function returned. "You brought me _him_?"

"Dead as the proverbial doornail. Sherlock wanted to present him to John, as a token of vengeance, but there are some privileges an older brother has. Besides, Mrs Hudson would deeply object to Sherlock storing an entire body in the flat. It's more hygienic this way."

Molly stared at him, and then back at the corpse.

"You don't like it?" Mycroft sounded disappointed.

Molly smiled. "It is the best present _anyone_ has ever given me!" she said, throwing herself into Mycroft's arms and kissing him. "But I do have an idea – it's almost Valentine's Day."

Mycroft grimaced. "I was planning on getting you something _other_ than the corpse of your ex-boyfriend you know," he said.

"Oh, not for me! But I know that Sherlock – when he realizes – will be wanting to get something for John, and I think that John deserves a piece of him." She waved at the corpse. "A very special piece – his heart."

Mycroft looked at her with something akin to reverence.

"How could I manage without you, Molly?" he asked.

* * *

"It's disgusting. Look at them. Dancing. Hopelessly in love. Hateful." Sherlock took a swig of champagne and glared around him. "All of them. Fools."

"Come off it, Sherlock. I'll admit, the band isn't quite up to your usual standard, but… has the champagne stuck to the table? It's your brother's _wedding_." John wrestled the bottle out of his hands.

"To Molly _Hooper_. Have you thought about this, John? Really considered it? Of course you haven't. You're an idiot."

"No more so than you," John argued. "And that's it. I'm cutting you off. You're not going to vomit in the cab. Now, tell me, what's got you so upset?"

"You don’t see? She's my," Sherlock looked like he'd swallowed an oyster the wrong way." _Sister_ -in-law."

John rolled his eyes.

"Well, she's my sister-in-law, too, then. And anyway, how do you think I feel, knowing my brother-in-law kidnapped me the day after I first met you, and then decided we were meant for each other? If anybody has a greater cross to bear when it comes to in-laws, it's me."

Sherlock scowled.

"Oh, come on." John rose and held out his hand. "If you're going to sulk, sulk with me on the dance floor." He leaned closer, brushing his lips against Sherlock's ear. "And while we're dancing, I'll tell you _exactly_ what I have planned for you this evening, if you behave yourself. If you don't, though…"

"That's blackmail."

John grinned.

"Of course it is. I learned it from my brother-in-law."

From across the room, Molly watched her brothers-in-law bickering as John led Sherlock onto the dance floor.

"They're lovely, aren't they?" she asked her husband.

"Who? Sherlock and John?" Mycroft swung her around so he could take a look and tutted.

"What?"

"Sherlock's making John lead. Again."

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine. No money. Thanks to the team that made this work: AnnieTalbot, Bluestocking79, PyjamaPants, Machshefa, and Dickgloucester for the Britpick!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Mysterious Ways](https://archiveofourown.org/works/663104) by [hechicera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hechicera/pseuds/hechicera)




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